


Dirty Martini

by MistressOfMalplaquet



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Baby It's Cold Outside, Christmas, Clumsy!Betty Cooper, F/M, Ladies' Man!Jughead Jones, Riverdale Reindeer Games, bughead - Freeform, happy new year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 14:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17265737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressOfMalplaquet/pseuds/MistressOfMalplaquet
Summary: Betty has watched Jughead chase other woman all year, and apparently now it’s her turn.(In which the author takes a problematic Christmas song and has her way with it)





	Dirty Martini

Jughead’s apartment reflects his famous lady-killer reputation. The couch is warm velvet and loaded with pillows (Betty could instantly imagine at least five positions possible over the armrest alone.) Several blankets are folded over the back. The wide windows look out on city lights. There’s a mirrored bar on a near wall filled with sparkling jewels of bottles, and the lowered lights showcase a bank of candles waving their fingers at her as though she’s been a naughty girl.

The music catches her attention as Jughead takes her coat, 50’s jazz etching itself into the air from an actual turntable. “Is that a real record?” Betty asks, her usual clumsiness making her bonk against an expensive table that might just be Stickley.

Jughead waves away her apologies and puts one hand on her lower back to guide her to the dark wood cabinet where an album with a red label spins. “Bought it last year for a mere song, no pun intended. I worked on it for a few months and actually got the turntable to spin. Do you like it?” His voice is eager, not the sly silken tones she expected from such a seducer.

Betty’s seen him all year at the building where he works, each time chatting up a different girl. Apparently it’s now her turn.

Betty sinks to her knees and starts looking through his collection of albums. “Quite the eclectic mix you have here,” she laughs. “Punk, glam, folk – and Beninese disco. Nice.”

“You’ve heard of Kidjo?” He pulls out one album and holds it up to the light. “I saw her when she played Carnegie.”

“I’m jealous.” Betty lets him help her to her feet. He waves to the massive bar, and she nods. “I like my martinis dirty,” she tells Jughead, “but just one.”

His grin suggests everything’s going to plan. Betty hides her own smile, determined to make this beautiful man chase her for as long as possible. She knows exactly how she wants the evening to end, but she refuses to make it easy for him.

_# Last year #_

In January, Betty scrambles onto the elevator with an armload of files. A slender woman in red stands in one corner, looking up at a man with black hair. He brackets her against the wall with both arms as he murmurs something into her ear, and the scarlet beauty giggles.

Betty learns the guy’s name is Jughead. “He works downstairs,” Cheryl sniffs. “Tomcats all over the building. He even made a move on my Toni before I put a stop to all that.” Her brown eyes rake over Betty. “If you stop dressing like a Sears mannequin and learn how to walk without stumbling like a drunken sailor he’ll come after you as well.”

In February, Betty runs out of the building under the shelter of a massive umbrella. A couple is kissing under the awning: Jughead and a gorgeous brunette who apparently owns half the building.

In March, he picks up an actual countess at a party, and the entire building gossips about it for weeks.

In April he sweeps Trula off her feet.

He’s gone all summer on business trips, but Cheryl keeps dropping snippets at Betty’s desk about Parisian models and Italian heiresses, all captured on Jughead’s Instagram in different states of undress. “He’s keeping busy,” Betty comments and spills hot tea all over the sales report.

Autumn blows into town, and Betty catches Jughead on the elevator again. This time he’s got two girls, one on each arm. Maybe they’re the girls from Europe? Who knows? Betty walks on carrying a huge stack of boxes, and the threesome don’t pay any attention to her.

In early December, the company’s holiday party is held on the top floor of the building. Betty arrives late. A taxi has splashed her with snow, and she’s freezing. Her curls are blown all over the place,

When she dashes to the bar, dying for coffee or hot toddy or soup – can she order a bubblebath? – the mixologist ignores her until a tall figure slips into the stool beside Betty. “You look like you’re freezing,” he says, removing his tailored jacket to place it over her shoulders. The silk is warmed from his skin, and Betty smiles with relief.

Jughead blinks. “Gosh. Your smile is – wow. I mean, it’s like sitting by a fireplace, if that makes any sense.” He clears his throat and adds, rather bashfully, “You have a really great smile.”

Perhaps it’s this display of unexpected and awkward humanity that warms Betty to the building Romeo. “I meant to be all glam and polished for this party,” she sighs, “but a bus splashed past on 6th Avenue, and then a bike messenger swerved and nearly hit me and I had to dive into a snowbank. So here I am, a complete mess.” She spreads out both arms and adds a merry Ta-dah!

“Your hair looks swirly and careless like a Marilyn Monroe photo. But I know what you mean.” Jughead moves closer and drops his voice. “In Italy I was trying to be a suave American artist. Unfortunately, when I went to the bathroom and saw the Turkish toilet, I shrieked in high C, loud enough for the entire restaurant to hear me. It was at a really important sales meeting, too.” His eyes twinkle.

With that they’re swept into a long discussion about embarrassing moments. Betty confesses she once asked a handsome French waiter for matches but requested street-lamps instead. He says he pulled the classic move of drinking from the finger bowl at a snooty wedding. One lock of black hair flops over his forehead as he waves to the bartender, and Betty discovers a brandied coffee at her elbow.

It feels like they are the only two in the room even though the entire floor is filled with executives. “You know,” Jughead says with a glint, “we should do this again.”

“Arrive to a business party soaked by a rude biker?”

“Have drinks together.”

Betty sits back and regards him over the rim of her brandy glass. He looks very handsome and sure of himself. And so she tells him Perhaps, and of course he asks depending on what, and she tells him depending on the alignment of the stars, and he says if they’re as bright as the stars in her eyes the answer simply has to be yes.

The ballroom gets luminous, like a kaleidoscope filled with drinks and laughter. They toast each other with a round of martinis, chat about their jobs (manager of corporate website, executive editor) and plans for the New Year.

“You know what?” Jughead leans dangerously close. “I mix really good martinis.”

Betty raises one eyebrow. “Is that so? That’s hard to believe. I’ll have you know that this is a very delicious martini.” She sips delicately to punctuate her point, thinking any second now he’s going to ask her out and she’ll say yes.

At that moment, the night explodes into a million shards like a Ming vase tossed down a stairwell. Out of nowhere a woman slides between them and cups Jghead's face to kiss his cheek, completely ignoring Betty. It's Trula, and she looks incredible. Her gown seems to be made out of diamonds, and somehow it manages to look skin-tight and able to be removed at the touch of a finger at the same time.

“Jughead,” Trula purrs. “I was looking for you, darling. We have to talk about the latest acquisitions and so much more. Take me onto the dance floor? I simply won’t take no for an answer.”

Her determined fist clutches the faultless white of his shirtsleeve, and Trula drags him out of the barstool. Jughead looks back at Betty, mouths Please Wait I’ll Be Back, and follows Trula into the crowd.

The shimmering magic disappears with an almost audible Pop. Betty refuses to wait on an uncomfortable chair like some ancient Greek sacrifice to the goddess of love. Instead she gets up, plows through the dancers in the other direction, and escapes.

On her way home, the phone vibrates. _You left,_ an unknown number accuses. _I wanted to get your digits, but you disappeared when I came back to the bar._

Betty leans back in the subway seat and can’t help giggling. _Obviously you found me anyway,_ she texts.

_Well, yeah. I’m that good. So – martinis? At my place?_

She makes him wait for a few subway stops, enjoying the escalation of Jughead’s pleas. Finally Betty replies. 

_Maybe._

#

Betty plans to take full advantage of the evening. Sitting on the velvet couch, she sips what might be the best martini she’s ever tasted and watches as Jughead puts on another stack of records.

“Say, what’s in this drink?” Betty holds up her glass and squints at it.

“Vodka, olives, and I whispered the word ‘vermouth’ over the shaker.” Jughead joins her on the couch and picks up his own drink for a toast. “Plus you said you liked it dirty.”

“I do,” Betty confides. “Tell me more about fixing your stereo.”

Jughead turns and stalks forward, lithe as a panther, to slide next to her on the sofa. They chat about music, about their jobs, about city life. Betty describes her apartment, a tiny studio complete with irritating neighbor and a small kitten. “Caramel,” she adds. “She’s just as annoying as my neighbor but far cuter.”

“I wanted to get a dog,” Jughead muses, “but is it fair to keep a poor pooch cooped up inside all the time? Plus work, and travel… but maybe some day.”

“Here’s to some day.” Betty clinks her martini against his, tosses back the last of her drink, and sets the empty glass on the coaster. “Well, I really must head home. Look, it’s starting to snow out there! So pretty, right? But also a nuisance, like the kitten and the neighbor. I’d better grab a cab while I can.”

He gestures to the window. “Snow is right! Look how much has fallen while we chatted about music and cats. Honestly, I don’t see a single taxi out there.”

“Uber,” Betty carols, waggling her phone in his face.

“Ugh. Do you really want to sit in a cold Altima listening to Careless Whispers all the way home?” He puts one arm on the back of the couch and whispers in her ear, “Maybe you should stay.”

“But what would that irritating neighbor of mine think? Did I tell you she’s an old lady named Geraldine? Geraldine! Probably it’s French for ‘gossip.’ I bet the whole complex would hear of my Walk of Shame by tomorrow afternoon if I ever did such a thing.”

Outside the window snowflakes whirl around the roofs and streetlights, and with a sudden gust the storm redoubles its fury. “There, it’s getting worse,” Jughead says with satisfaction. “You’d turn into an icicle if you left now. And it just so happens I have a spare toothbrush.”

_I’ll bet you do._ Betty picks up her jacket, sees the disappointment in his eyes, and decides to throw him a bone. “Well, maybe just half a drink more. Those martinis of yours are as amazing as you promised.”

“Now you’re talking.” Jughead unscrews the lid of the shaker and lifts his chin at the stereo. “How about you put some records on while I pour? Surprise me.”

“Okay.” Betty peeks at him while she picks out more jazz and a schmaltzy collection of lounge hits.

He seems engrossed in his task, but at the last minute he turns and gives her a flamboyant wink. “Piero Piccini? Excellent. Too bad I didn’t wear a cabana suit.”

“Next time I’ll bring my muumuu…” Betty flushes. Of course there won’t be a next time, because he’s just not that kind of date. To cover her misstep, she walks to a wall mirror and fluffs her hair. “Don’t suppose you have a comb I could borrow?”

“Your hair looks swell, and you know it.”

Staring into each other’s eyes, Betty and Jughead sip the martinis. With great gravity he takes her glass, sets it on the Stickley table, and offers his elbow. “Want to dance? We never had a chance at the business reception.”

“That’s sweet, Juggie. Thanks.”

She steps into his arms, allows him to twirl and sweep her into an outrageous dip. “Bossa nova is the best,” Betty says, laying her cheek against his. His skin is smooth, obviously clean-shaven. She can imagine him prepping for their date: a long shower, the swift strokes of his razor cutting through white foam, the way he’d splash on fragrance with both palms. Betty can smell spice and lemon over the warm scent of his flesh, as intoxicating as the dirty martini.

“Mmm.” Jughead murmurs again when she threads her fingers into his hair, a light touch on his neck. “This is the best night ever.”

Betty laughs and steps out of his embrace. “Sure it is. Now I really must go. You’ve been so nice, and this evening has been – well, I’ll remember it for a long time. But I should head …”

“Baby, look at that snow.” Jughead takes her hand, draws it through his elbow in an old-fashioned gesture to escort her back to the window. “What if you fell in a drift and no one knew? What if you caught pneumonia and died? Just _think_ of my life-long sorrow.”

Betty flutters her lashes. “I’m an expert skier.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“If I can negotiate Jackson Hole, pretty sure I can walk a few city streets.”

Jughead blows out a long breath. “Listen, I'll serious for a second. I just changed the sheets, and I’ll sleep on the couch. I can brew some coffee, and in the morning we’ll call for a cab.” His expressive eyes shimmer between hope and despair.

She goes up on tiptoe and presses a light kiss to the corner of his mouth, just catching the hidden dimple there. “I’ll stay,” Betty whispers.

#

Jughead kisses her in the middle of the next song. His lips are tender at first, quickly become demanding. Betty lets him lick into her. She’s been dying to taste Jughead all night, and he doesn’t disappoint. He flicks the tip of his tongue against hers, bites her lower lip, sighs into her mouth one word.

Betty, he says. Betty.

The way he undresses her is slow and practiced, the moves of a man who has done this many times before. But his hands tremble against her breasts, and he can’t seem to stop kissing even as he lifts her and carries down the hall to his bedroom.

The sheets are clean, just like he promised. There are more candles, more pillows, even another tiny bar.

She’s still wearing her thigh-high stockings as he kisses between her breasts, down her belly, into the heady mystery of her. Betty gasps as she feels his tongue, yes, and his hands as well, adoring her thighs and reaching so she can suck one thumb into her mouth.

With a quick move she flips them so she’s on top. Betty crosses his wrists and holds them, wriggles against his length. Jughead curses and tells her he won’t last if she keeps that up, and she’s a ‘cheeky little wonder.’

His punishment is to be edged several times, Betty flickering the head and the delightful vein on his shaft. He curses and arches under her, and she pulls off with a pop.

“Baby,” Jughead breathes. “I don’t know what I did in another lifetime, but it must have been something good.”

“Mmm.” Betty rolls the condom onto him with her mouth and climbs on. As he fucks up into her Jughead kisses her again, deep and slow.

It almost feels like love.

#

After sex, after he draws her a bath and washes her with bubbles and candlelight, after they run to his fridge and eat naked in the kitchen giggling like two little kids, after another bout of making love, Betty curls up next to Jughead and drowses on his chest. Who would have thought this ladies’ man could be so … snuggly?

He’s promised her pancakes in the morning. Betty plans to jump his bones one last time before she heads out on the long, cold walk back to her little apartment where Caramel will be sleeping in her sweaters, all curled up like an affronted fur button.

She’s taken her time with this seduction and enjoyed it thoroughly. It’s always been her way. While Polly and Chic tore open their gifts at Christmas, Betty always unwrapped each present carefully. She’d cut the tape, fold the wrapping paper, all to fully savor the holiday.

And it’s been the same with Jughead: the night has unwrapped itself like a sparkling surprise.

Probably she won’t see him again for a while. Betty has the feeling the next time they encounter each other will be at the company New Year’s Eve party. Probably he’ll be friendly and sweet before he heads over to the next female. Certainly she refuses to pull a Trula and cut into his next flirtation.

Betty smothers a sigh and tells herself she won’t get hurt. She’ll be fine.

“What are you doing for Christmas?” Jughead mumbles into her hair. “I’m heading to my hometown to see my sister.”

“Same type of thing, except I have a sister _and_ a brother.” Betty is certain he’s already establishing their separation as gently as possible, which is – nice of him. Yes, nice. “I’ll spoil my niece and nephew and probably OD on cookies.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

His breath smoothes out into a gentle snore, and Betty changes her mind about sleeping in Jughead’s bed. If she stays any longer it’ll make the eventual goodbye too painful. Once he’s fully asleep, she’ll get dressed and sneak out of his place before running home in the snow.

“What are you thinking about, Betty Boop?” He rouses and bops her nose with one gentle finger. “Let me guess – dirty martinis?”

Blinking, Betty nods into Jughead’s chest. “Yeah,” she whispers. “Dirty martinis.”

Tears burn her eyelids, but Betty blinks them away when Jughead tells her he has a question to ask. “A very important question,” he adds.

“What’s that?” Betty asks huskily.

He settles himself closer, pulls her leg up over his hip, and nuzzles one earlobe. “Baby,” Jughead asks, “what are you doing New Year’s Eve?”


End file.
